


Land of the Living

by anoldaccount



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: (sort of), Fluff, For Want of a Nail, Found Family, Multi, Plotty Fluff?, Slow Burn but like with family instead of romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4117659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoldaccount/pseuds/anoldaccount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Gast and Ifalna escape together and end up hiding in Nibelheim to raise Aerith. As they settle in to their domestic life, changes ripple out across the world, and the face of history will never be the same. Very "found family" centric.</p><p>In WiP hell until further notice, bad health happened and I lost where I was going with it meanwhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In one life, Aerith had stayed in Midgar after Ifalna’s escape, partly out of an idea of hiding-in-plain sight, partly out of Elmyra not having the will for such a move in her grief, and partly that for all that Tseng’s attempts to convince her to return to ShinRa quite frankly sucked, he wasn’t going to push the issue when their attention had been on the war in Wutai.

 

And it was nice to have something like a friend who knew and understood the...ways that she was weird, who would drop hints as best he could about what she was dealing with.

 

In that life, Gast hadn’t been called to Nibelheim to research, and he hadn’t avoided reporting any findings about the woman who’d become his wife.

 

Mt. Nibel was nowhere for two men left for dead, a woman with a recently-born infant, _and_ said recently-born infant to be hiding out for a full winter. But something in Gast had said to keep a hidden weapon, for all that he was loathe to violence, and keep an escape plan prepared. Though he’d nearly died in the attempt, he was a little better-off than he would have been had he put it off until the final straw instead of running sooner. He was still shaken by the idea of what could have happened had he tried to run unarmed in the middle of an argument, if he’d waited until he was sure of his suspicions of ShinRa’s and Hojo’s abuses.

 

He didn’t know why his instincts had told him to, long-distance, arrange a wild goose chase that ended in Wutai. But with tensions already flaring with Wutai, it would be easy to assume a former ShinRa employee's wife and her newborn to have gotten caught in the crossfire or died in the wilderness there.

 

From the shadows, red eyes gleamed softly. The smell of roasting wolf was barely made pleasant by the incredible hunger they all faced. Somehow, they would make it through the winter, and then they could decide where to go next-- and whether ShinRa’s lost interest and the local hatred of the company that had invaded would be enough to let them stay safely a little while.

 

Ifalna prayed on her knees before the natural fountain of mako lighting the cavern, staff over her knees, odd useless materia having been moved to make room for the natural Fire and Restore they’d found.

 

Poor small Sephiroth, inquisitive and bright and too old for his age, was off to Midgar, likely off to war after that, and that...would have to be addressed. No child deserved to be left to Hojo’s not-so-tender mercies. Valentine had barely been convinced along, out of his coffin where he hid to ruminate on his sins, with a plea to help save the mother who hadn’t betrayed the man who loved her or her own child to Hojo’s will. If he wasn’t ready to face the man again to save Lucrecia’s child, well, it was only a matter of time.

 

 _It’s the three-- no, four,_ he corrected himself, looking at tiny Aerith born into their own tiny war, _of us against the world._

 

First they’d have to survive wolves and dragons, in the middle of their breeding season, where they too hid most of their days in the caverns with nothing to do but go with the rut so that they’d be birthing in time for the first thaw of spring.

 

Ifalna’s new materia glittered as she slipped away from the pool with a smile, headed to tend their meal.

 

She who, like him, was so loathe to violence? Would take exception if they decided her daughter looked like a potential snack. A dragon had nothing on a fiercely loving mother.

  
  


__

 

The strangers came into town late in a sunny spring day, after the floods of the thaw had passed.

 

They were thin, sinewy and strong and scarred, and their clothes looked as ragged as they did. But they must have been tough, to make it all the way from the recently conquered Shanhai-Tei during the dragons’ birthing season. With them they brought mastered materia and parts from the aggressive, recently-mutated monsters, which helped bolster their flagging money.

 

Ifalna chattered brightly with the woman at the tavern bar, burdened by the bags of clothes and necessities they’d invested in.

 

“If it’s jobs you folk come for, ain’t none to be found here.” she said, gruff but not unkindly. “News must not have passed through in the winter, but the ShinRa cleared out right quick and left the reactor to itself. Like to be more where you came from, with those planes they’ve been building.”

 

A hand to her mouth, catching on fast, Ifalna feigned surprise and disappointment. “What a shame. My daughter took sick with the noise and pollution from the manufacturing, and my husband and I had been hoping the mountain air would do her good. Is there no way at all we could get on our feet here?”

 

The woman eyed the deep green of the materia. “Guess we could use a healer, least til you’ve got funds to move on. If your brother don’t mind sharing a room with you lovebirds, the widow Strife could use the money-- not like to make it, rooming here for that long.”

 

“I’m grateful. Your help has been so wonderful, Mrs…?”

 

Her eyes softened in the face of Ifalna’s undeniable sincerity. “Host. Petra Host. Yourself?”

 

Gast tried not to snort and shared a look with Vincent through the tinted glasses they’d bought the other man. With that name, her family must have owned the tavern and inn a very long time.

 

“Ebner.” she said, the name they’d agreed on. “Felicia Ebner. My husband is Gustav, and my brother is Serge Valens. This is my daughter, Zephyr.” Aerith burbled happily, perking up at hearing herself mentioned-- it hurt to change her name, but she had adjusted fast, oddly aware for how incredibly young she was.

 

The woman _did_ snort at their names. “You’ll do well with Strife. Plans to name hers Cloud.” Her voice lowered a little. “The woman is a bit-- _odd_ \-- we call her a widow to be nice-- but she won’t do you no harm. Just don’t get her started on those old gods of hers. I ain’t believe what they say about her family having been witches, nohow.”

 

Ifalna’s eyes, if possible, brightened a little. “Must get lonely.” she murmured as she passed the gil over. “We ought to rest now, but...thank you for all of your help. What time should we come down to the tavern for supper?”

 

“About sundown is when the menfolk get scrubbed up for it, and after they’ll head here to drink. You’ll hear the noise.” she replied. “Might be a bit much for the little one.”

 

The rooms were small, dusty, and so, so much better than trying to live in a cave. Unburdened from having to carry everything he owned, Gast let out an incredibly indecent noise at the mattress’ embrace.

 

“I don’t know if I can make it for supper.” he announced, muffled. “I want to sleep for a _week_.”

 

“Food. Real food. That isn’t roasted wolf.” reminded Ifalna.

 

“Shh. Only bed now.” he mumbled, but he did roll over to prop himself up on the pillows. He smiled at Aerith as she was deposited in his arms and Ifalna undid the makeshift sling to pull her top down.

 

Vincent, usually one to sneak off on his own to brood whenever he got the chance, had settled in the chair in the corner instead of in the room he had all to himself.

 

He raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t going to complain. It wasn’t like he and Ifalna had the energy for anything they’d need privacy for.

 

Aerith brightened and reached for her mother, latching on quickly once Ifalna had settled next to him. At some point they’d have to have the conversation about how long they could possibly be safe there, whether or not he could safely sneak into the mansion to see if there were any research notes there-- partly to judge the risk of Hojo sending someone back for anything, partly so that he didn’t go mad from lack of things to read and write about-- but for now, it was time to rest without any immediate threats looming.

 

His wife curled around him, head on his chest, his daughter happily feeding in a warm room, and their unusual ally watching over like a gargoyle guarding a holy scene in a church, he drifted to sleep.

 

When he awoke, Ifalna’s top had been pulled up and they both were curled around Aerith. Vincent’s human hand was on his shoulder, and he jumped to awareness with reflexes trained by months living around dragon nests.

 

The innkeeper hadn’t exaggerated about the level of noise that would be filtering up, and he was glad to not be surrounded by the noisy camraderie that came after the workday. After so long with so few people, even a small crowd would be...hard, to deal with. And he hadn’t woken early enough to miss them altogether.

 

The smell of warm food filled the room, and Vincent gestured at the tray with bowls of stew and hard crusty rolls.

 

For someone who’d spent years trying to sleep in a coffin, the crowd would have been so much worse. “Thank you.” he said, feeling like the words were feeble for how touched he was by the action.

 

Vincent just made a low noise in the back of his throat and then gave an odd shrug with one shoulder before returning to his spot in the corner.

 

He didn’t, precisely, need to eat, but he’d picked it up out of habit from Ifalna’s concern, and Gast was pleased to see a bowl cradled awkwardly in the gloved claw.

 

After disentangling from his sleeping wife, making her murmur as she shifted awake, he passed one to her and started in earnest on his own. It was humble, hearty food, and it was delicious.

 

With the stoves in the inn using less coal and wood from supplies that had likely become meagre during the hard winter, and the sun down, the room was oddly chill compared to the Fire and mako-warmed caverns. Out of habit more than anything Vincent started to slip into bed-- on the nights they hadn’t had wood, things had gotten much, much colder, and neither had wanted to risk Ifalna or Aerith being harmed by the cold-- and then paused at the edge of the unfamiliar covers.

 

It wasn’t likely to get _that_ cold in the building. Still, as he drifted off, Gast found himself mumbling _go ahead_ to the man that he hoped felt as much friendship as he and his wife did.

  
Vincent didn’t usually sleep a true sleep, but he awoke to sun streaming in the dusty windows and tiny Aerith smiling at his face. He was surprised to note that felt rested in a way that even years of ‘sleep’ hadn’t left him, and he hadn’t had a single nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea gripped onto me at six in the morning. By ten I had a scrapped prologue of meta setup and this chapter. I have a fairly good idea of where I'm going with this; chapter two is in the works already, but I figured I'd go ahead and post this now, quick editing and all. No beta so far, but I'm certainly open to one! I only really have one friend in this fandom, and they don't actually write in it. Title is probably temporary.
> 
> I might do some short side scenes of them bonding with Vincent in their months living in the Materia Cave, since I just kind of skipped over all of it. I figured that Ifalna and Gast probably aren't the characters that readers will be most interested in.
> 
> Feedback would be much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Gast had been worried that his wife’s irrepressibly social nature would make someone recognize her, but the shorter hair that had been more manageable with an infant in the wilderness, local-styled clothes, and the hastily-bought makeup did a lot to change her their perceptions of her.

 

So did the voice roughened by nights spent over a smoking fire and a cold that just wouldn’t go away. She was a bit shyer, a bit quieter from the scares they had faced, a bit more reticent out of worry for their safety. Her movements had been restricted by a hard pregnancy and he doubted they’d seen her once she’d really started showing. Her body was hardened by hard living and what weight she kept had migrated to her hips and chest.

 

And he himself had been so consumed by his work and worry for her that he’d rarely left.

 

Was he even recognizable, after so long out of his research? He’d never been given to brutal physical activity before. The small mirror in the washroom had reflected a body far different from what he remembered, tough and scarred.

 

A few women who’d gathered after breakfast to get an eyeful of the new arrivals, fresh gossip in a small town, had asked her how she’d done with a late pregnancy. The idea that they looked older from their ordeal wasn’t a new one, but he’d startled at it nonetheless. The clever woman he loved had gone along with it, since nobody would be looking for a middle-aged couple with a younger brother, and anyway something about her had always seemed older.

 

Vincent was barely shaken off of them even for visiting the washroom. _Hyper-vigilance_ , some part of Gast’s brain prodded at him. The man felt less safe and more protective around people than he had surrounded by dragon nests, and with what he’d been through, it was hard to blame him.

 

That or his years-honed bodyguard instincts were kicking in.

 

He’d have to mention something to the man about how acting toward Ifalna that way would pass fine, but would meet scrutiny if he seemed too protective of his “brother-in-law”. In one of his rare moods that was talkative by his standards, he’d muttered something about Gast reminding him of Lucrecia.

 

He shook himself out of thought as Ifalna politely withdrew from conversation. It was hard to make themselves leave their things, but if Strife wasn’t keen on renting rooms to complete strangers, they’d have to remain there for as long as their money would stretch.

 

Bits of ice and fresh snow lingered in the long shadows of the buildings, but something about the air tasted more alive than it had in winter. The rough-cloth new clothes fitted oddly, the locals being prone to sewing their own, but were clean, and that was a novelty he was hoping to get used to.

 

Scrubbed red and thoroughly starched, hoping to make a good impression, they made their way toward the run-down house near the center of town. Activity buzzed around them as men set to work patching roofs worn down by the weather and women set to work doing their mending in the sunshine. Not a few children were set carrying materials up and down ladders, passing tools, and chasing each other around the still half-frozen puddles.

 

Nobody was on the roof or lingering outside the Strife home. The curtains were drawn and the house seemed dim and ramshackle surrounded by the furor of work; even the first hardy weeds that stubbornly poked out of the ground seemed sad and weak.

 

Cautiously Ifalna knocked on the door, then a bit louder a moment later.

 

Eventually, the door creaked open a crack, and a woman peeked out suspiciously.

 

No, not woman, he corrected himself, taken aback. Girl. If she was as old as twenty, he’d eat his new hat. She was hugely pregnant, arms too thin for her belly, and her chocobo-yellow hair was wild in a way he hadn’t seen since passing through Gongaga.

 

A winter in caves had left them pale, but she was the shade of bleached paper, face pinched and tight with exhaustion.

 

She blinked at the strangers.

 

“Hello,” started Ifalna, “my name is Felicia...Ebner...I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, for bothering you. May we come in, Mrs. Strife?”

 

“Ms.” The girl corrected wearily. Her accent was thicker and a little different from the others in town. “What do you want?”

 

Ifalna tried for her usual bright smile. “I heard you might be willing to rent out a room?”

 

Holding his breath, Gast waited as the woman’s eyes flicked from Ifalna to the sling tiny Aerith was sleeping in, to himself, and then to Vincent lurking behind. Him she especially stared at, scowling.

 

“Fine. Come in.”

 

The house wasn’t much better inside. A thick gloom of dust and darkness hung over, barely broken by the candle on the table. It was shabby at best, and Gast felt a pang of pity that he hoped didn’t show on his face. Ifalna’s pregnancy had been brutal, and if that was a typical experience, he couldn’t imagine-- what if she’d been much younger? What if she’d been on her own, in a place that prided physical labor and where she was outcast, unwed and judged for far more than that?

 

More than that, he saw how thin she was and worried about how she’d been managing to feed herself.

 

They shuffled awkwardly to the sofa. The girl’s empty eyes followed them, bright and judging.

 

“My husband is Gustav, I’ll just-- call him Gus-- and this is my brother, Serge Valens. And this,” she gestured to Aerith, “is Zephyr, why we came to Nibelheim.”

 

Sitting across from them in an overstuffed chair, the woman kept staring.

 

“She, uh, took sick when my husband was working on the planes in Shanhai-Tei. We thought the clear mountain air would do her good, and it seems to be helping already, so…”

 

Ms. Strife’s eyes softened a little, but still narrowed. “No kin to help out?”

 

“I’m afraid not. My husband is a doctor and I’m a healer, I’m sure we can find work, but...well, moving took all we had. We were planning to stay at the inn until we’d saved up, but week-to-week would be easier to get by with than nightly.”

 

She turned her head and looked down. “Haven’t got any, either.” she said quietly, and Gast’s heart as a father came close to cracking in two.

 

“You know,” Ifalna said gently, “I love to fuss about a place. I know a woman’s home is her own, but if you’d let me, I’d like to do what I can around the house. If you’re amenable to us staying.”

 

The girl took a deep breath and closed her eyes. After a moment of wondering, Gast realized that his wife had said things that way to spare her pride at the idea that she might be struggling-- not that it was surprising, for someone in her circumstances.

 

“Might as well call me Astrid, being as you’ll be living here.” she said, looking back at Ifalna. “Rent’s a hundred a week. I’ll pay for the food.”

 

They all let out a sigh of relief.

 

“And I ain’t wanna know what you’re running from.” she added. “I don’t care, so long as you bring rent in.”

 

Ifalna’s smile froze, but she politely excused them out to gather their things from the inn.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Gast whispered to Vincent.

 

He paused to think about it, obviously sour at the idea. “...No.” he said, finally. “Maybe. We have to be careful.”

 

Idly, Gast thought to the bookmarked novel on the table wondered how comfortably the girl-- no, Astrid-- could read. Something about her struck him as someone attentive who’d hoard knowledge; the bookshelf was one of the cleaner things in the house, although it didn’t look like the books moved often.

 

If he were posing as a regular medical doctor, he might be able to special-order medical journals, at least if there was a local library. But the advanced scientific publications he’d been accustomed to would be hard to come by, and anyone reading them would merit an attempted recruiting visit by the company. He might find himself having to carefully plan a trek to Cosmo Canyon in a few months to retrieve things to read; anti-ShinRa scientists flocked there, and even if someone did recognize him, he doubted the news would make it to the company’s ears.

 

Until then, he’d have to make due with any books he could find about local plants and animals-- at best. At worst, he’d have to develop a taste for trashy romance and mysteries.

 

It bothered him, a little, how easily he settled to the idea of staying in the town for potential years.

 

They got waved off when they tried to pay for the extra time their things had been occupying the rooms-- the result of Ifalna’s ineffable charm, no doubt. He made another trip to the store to buy a cot and any excess books they had in stock that he could afford, not being privy to the local circle that likely shared and lent and traded. He’d grabbed a few of his favorites for the bag he packed in preparation for someday fleeing, but he’d read and re-read so many of them that he could likely close his eyes on any given page and recite the rest of it from memory.

 

Besides, even the man would never say it, he was pretty sure Vincent’s favorite times were when they were passing around the one battered romance novel to take turns reading aloud from.

 

There was still a lot left to do that really ought to be done that day, but once their things were set down, he rolled his sleeves up to help Ifalna as she started cleaning their room in earnest. They’d need a proper bed for Vincent as soon as they could afford it. And he needed to find out if there was already a clinic or healer’s house in town, or if he’d have to try to be on-call from the house-- and oh, neither the townspeople nor Astrid would likely be happy with that.

  
For the moment, he let himself fall into the rhythm of sweeping and scrubbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon will be time for them to get into planning in earnest, but I didn't want to just completely skip over them getting settled in.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sephiroth interlude seemed timely; have another ripple effect. There will be more of these.

Without Professor Gast and the times he snuck his wife in, life faded into pain and a series of tests.

 

If not for them, he might not have noticed how some of Hojo’s assistants flinched or couldn’t look him in the eye. He rarely saw them more than once.

 

One time, he had been apologized to, before a procedure to test his healing abilities began. Only his time spent with them let him know _why_.

 

If one of the beasts he fought as part of his testing had similar eyes, he didn’t say anything, just put it down with record efficiency. That, too, he had learned.

 

Maybe there were more out there like them; Gast had loved to tell him stories about heroes, quietly, during his routine injections when Hojo wasn’t there. Maybe someday he’d have someone to tell about the way he’d seen the man go down in a hail of bullets, about the numb that had spread through him like it was unreal, about how he didn’t need to fake asking where he was and had nearly accepted the lie that he’d simply suddenly retired.

 

Something in him wondered why the lie had been bothered with. Hojo had no lack of hatred for the man.

 

Ifalna, then, would be dead, too. And the already-named Aerith who he’d felt kicking under his own hands, who she’d said was eager to meet him.

 

The snow outside had sparkled, and the trees had been dizzying with the uneven patterns to their branches. Everything had so much more smell and so many more smells than he was accustomed to, in the glimpses he caught between the mansion and the truck. Some part of him regretted how little he was able to absorb of it, fighting through the paralysis of the emotion he’d read was called grief. Perhaps books failed to describe it because the writers’ senses weren’t enhanced; maybe they were accustomed to it in a way that he wasn’t.

 

He studied, he learned, but he stopped asking questions outright. Gast had loved it when he asked questions. Hojo didn’t have time for it.

 

If there were questions acceptable to his father, the half-dead wistful thought of “Will a hero ever come for me?” would not be one of them.

 

They wanted him to go to war in a few years. To kill. Ruthless, bloodthirsty savages who needed to be taught their place, they said. Deniers of progress who needed to be saved from themselves. Hojo had said that Gast needed to be taught his place, too.

 

Sitting on the bed in the kind of room that would have been likened to a jail cell, he inclined his head as a new face arrived. The man wore a suit, and had a scarred, hardened face and a prosthetic hand visible.

 

“My perfect SOLDIER should not have need of subterfuge,” said Hojo with a snort, “but I would not stand for a challenge that you could be lacking in any way. It’s time for a new kind of training.”

 

He swept off, looking almost-- petulant? was that the word?-- as he left. The man did not turn to watch him leave. Instead, he looked down at Sephiroth as he stood to attention.

 

“My name is Veld.” he said. “But when we’re outside, you will refer to me as Verdot.”

 

“We’re going outside?” asked Sephiroth before he could stop himself. He tried to compose himself.

 

“I’m going to teach you a weapon that is too large to learn in a laboratory.” said Veld.

 

Well, his interest was piqued. He tilted his head.

 

“I’m going to teach you to fight with your ears and your words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to all the canon I could find, in the canon timeline, Sephiroth could only have even met Gast in passing. Even that had left a major impact on him; what would months or years of contact in childhood have done? He went straight from having nearly only Hojo and whatever lab assistants were amoral enough to stay with him to the war in Wutai.
> 
> Veld is, canonically, a father so wrought by grief it transformed him. In canon, Sephiroth would have likely had little contact with him-- indeed, abusers like to limit and monitor any contact their victims have with others that they can.
> 
> But a rare mutter to the President about a potential oversight in his future perfect SOLDIER and template for all SOLDIERs' training, worded to play on Hojo's ego, is enough to get Sephiroth in the hands of the man who taught Tseng to be as caring and ethical as he could damn well be, to be the kind of man who would spend years doing his damndest to wait on Aerith's consent to return to ShinRa.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what I've written on the very first day of starting this fic. More to come! I just. Have latched on pretty hard to this fic, I guess!

Mrs. Geier was just as suspicious as any other of the locals in Nibelheim, old enough to be his mother and with a face that made him feel like he was about to be sent for a time-out.

 

Her accent was more like Astrid’s than the rests’. It lacked that extra odd tone, but was just as thick.

 

With her arranging things for an “Aerith” part of the room, them finally having a crib again to last until he built a new one so that Astrid could use it, he didn’t even have Ifalna’s genial warmth to hide behind.

 

He tried for a smile over the proffered mug of ale.

 

“Ma’am, I heard you are the town healer?” he tried.

 

“Hrmph. Heard your girl got sick in Shanhai-Tei.” She spat her chewing tobacco into a half-full jar next to her. “Fancy doctor man coming in to ask my help?”

 

He sweated. He was, in fact, not coming in to ask for her help. He tried to think of how ever-diplomatic Ifalna would word things.

 

“My wife is a healer, and she and I were looking for work we could do in town. I don’t suppose you’d happen to have room for two more apprentices?”

 

She barked out a laugh and eyed him harder. “A man with a degree comes in here to ask if an old healer woman can teach him anything? First time for everything!”

 

He took a deep breath. “I was from the old town Midangar, before they started to build Midgar city. A good healer brought me into this world. I was a breech birth. When my wife gave birth, I thought I knew everything there was to know, but I wasn’t even a little prepared for the reality.”

 

The laugh she gave at that was a little more real. “Your first birth will sure learn you!” she chortled. “Haven’t lost a child or mother in my time. Even the witch Strife, damn the girl’s pride, will have nothing to worry from me.”

 

He raised his eyebrows. Even in the hospital where he’d interned, there were more than a few childbirth deaths, even with new technology and surgical techniques. To think that they could have been avoided with an experienced healer’s knowledge…

 

He told her as much and she dimmed a little. “Damned shame, that is. Damned men and their knowing what’s best.” she said, shaking her head. “You know the ways of a healer are meant to be womens’, and the womenfolk’s only?”

 

The thought made him droop.

 

“The people of the town will talk.” she said. “Hell, they’ll talk for your staying at Strife’s place, they’ll talk for your brother staying there with neither of them married and her a loose woman. But if you’ll let talk be talk, I’ll take you. I’ll learn a doctor-man something, and hell if I might not learn some fancy new things myself.” She drew the word fancy out with a whistling noise, fannnnn-shey. “My girl thinks to be a doctor someday means she knows everything. Best apprentice I’ve had, but it wears a woman out, it does.”

 

The idea of someone interested in medical science, with a healer’s background, was interesting. And meant someone of similar interests, at least loosely, to talk to. “She’ll need that pride, if she goes to a university. They’re not kind to women there. But it’s not a bad goal.”

 

She beamed. “Not pre-cisely mine, of course, my cousin’s, but she’s the first apprentice of mine not to give up. Thirteen and bright like a firecracker. If she sees you learning, it might humble her some to start hearing again instead of thinking she’s got the world in her head.”

 

His smile came a little easier, at that. Before he’d gotten into research, he’d always wanted to be a teacher, and dealing with children would help him for when Aerith reached that age.

 

He tried not to wonder how Sephiroth was doing. He couldn’t start thinking about that until Cosmo Canyon, until he had a chance to get a feel of what was going on in the rest of the world and see what currents were flowing among the anti-ShinRa community.

 

“A word of warning to you, though.” she added. “Healers don’t get paid in gil hereabouts. You’ll get food, and clothes, and the like, but it won’t be paying your board. Might want to arrange something with Strife about that.”

 

That would be...something to work around. But he had something to work with.

 

“When should we start?” he asked.

 

“If you can be on my doorstep first light, I’ll see what I can do with you.” she said. “Go on out to tell your wife. Shoo. My old bones is sore from all this chatter.”

 

“I-- thank you. Thank you so much.”

 

The midday sun felt good on his face. It was odd, for the sound of children splashing and yelling to sound like music to his ears, but he had hope for a future where Aerith could be doing the same.

 

He’d told himself he’d die before his wife or child would live short, painful lives in a ShinRa lab, and he’d come close but he hadn’t had to.

 

He didn’t know what had possessed his wife to be carrying a Life on her, that had cost her whole savings, all the way from Icicle, but when his body had been unceremoniously dumped in Hojo’s nightmare room of coffins, she and Vincent had been ready.

 

If asked, he’d fib and say that he wasn’t looking forward to Aerith reaching the trouble age, her teen years. But he’d do his best to arrange that he never met the fate of Astrid, destitute and utterly abandoned, or...of Sephiroth. If it came down to it, he wouldn’t sacrifice her future to try and secure Sephiroth’s, but he could do his best to help him, too.

 

He squinted at the silhouette of Vincent on the roof of the shabby house, awkwardly trying to mimic what he saw the other men doing. Gast waved, and thought he might have seen the other man twitch at it before pausing and giving a nod back.

 

The smell of dinner filled up the small house, and he saw Astrid sweaty and collapsed on the couch. There was a rag in her hand and the house looked significantly cleaner; seeing Ifalna at work must have sparked stubbornness in her to start in on cleaning as well.

 

“Could you call that Valens fellow in?” she asked at the sight of him. She looked positively wracked with exhaustion, but there was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Time with his wife would do that to someone.

 

He peeked his head out the door. “V-- Serge!”

 

With a flurry, Vincent scaled down from the roof, not even bothering with the ladder, and burst in past him to scan the room.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said quietly, startled. He put a hand on Vincent’s arm. “I’m sorry. It’s just-- time to eat.”

 

Vincent closed his eyes and let a breath out, steadying himself.

 

Astrid was staring incredulously. They shared a glance between them. “My wife had a hard birth?” he offered.

 

“Must’ve been.” she said, dazed. “Wasn’t he on the roof?”

 

She shook herself and looked away, wrapping her cold persona back around herself. “Whatever.”

 

He helped Ifalna set the table and told her about what the healer had said, and she laughed, eyes sparkling.

 

“I tried to think of what you would do.” he admitted. “I’m afraid we won’t make too many friends in this town if they have a problem with me doing ‘womens’ work’.”

 

She fluttered a hand at him. “Those that mind don’t matter, and those that matter don’t mind. At least, that’s what my mother always said.” After, she got quiet, and he guessed she was wondering if she’d ever get a chance to introduce the woman to her granddaughter. Ifalna had been a later-life child, even later than she was trying to pass Aerith off as.

 

Aerith was a bit of a miracle; a Cetra successfully conceiving with a human was growing rarer, and vis versa. Hers was a dying people and she didn’t know where to look for the other demi-descendants of her kind, who had likely hid once they knew that the eyes of an ever-degrading ShinRa were turned toward them.

 

Gast wasn’t the first researcher to “disappear”, and likely wouldn’t be the last. With Hojo having the favor of President ShinRa himself, nobody who objected to him would be safe, as long as he kept providing results.

 

_As long as he keeps providing results…_

He filed the thought away for the future. It would be infinitely easier and safer to dethrone the man were he out of favor. Any sabotage would have to be subtle, and would have to avoid risking the helpless subjects of the man’s evils.

 

It was an idea to mention to Vincent that night, at least. The Turks were moving past a need for subtlety, with ShinRa’s control over propaganda wherever it ruled. But he was of the earlier generation, masters of corporate espionage more than outright thugs. He already had more than a few ideas of his own.

 

Talk over dinner that afternoon was a little strained. Astrid’s insistence that she had no curiosity about them was belied by her attention to the things they said. Her acting was meant to be a shield against a cruel world. In the face of an open lack of hostility, it crumbled.

 

If she’d been eating, if she’d had the energy to cook for herself at all, alone in a dark and musty house all day for months on end, it hadn’t been much. She was hardly ravenous, but she did work through the food quickly-- and he saw Ifalna’s healer hands in that, knowing what herbs would bring an appetite for those who had little.

 

Vincent ate small portions in a slow, measured way, but Gast had wolfed his food down. When it sunk in that they’d made it, it renewed a vigor for life in him that he hadn’t felt since meeting Ifalna.

 

“Mrs. Geier…” They all looked at Astrid. She flushed and ducked her head. “Good enough healer, I guess.” she muttered grudgingly to her plate, and pretended to ignore them.

He thought of how the woman had casually called her a witch. No lost love there, probably.

 

After that, they passed the time with inane chatter about the weather. He gathered the dishes up to wash out of months-rusty instinct while Vincent headed back out to work on the roof; he’d likely be joining him, for all that construction had never been his forte. Astrid’s eyes followed him with barely-veiled surprise as he rolled his sleeves up and started washing. _The stigma of gendered work is so heavy around here,_ he thought.

 

She fled “Just to lie down for a moment, I ain’t bad off!” while he finished up. Undoubtedly, she was tired. He had to wonder, though, how close she’d been to her child’s father, and regardless, how seeing the broadly loving care between Ifalna and he might sting.

 

It wasn’t hard to picture some of the men he’d seen around town leaving tables filthy and tracking everywhere they went, then shouting like it was someone else’s fault. His own father had been that way. His early bookishness had not been taken to kindly. Leaving to study had been the final straw, and unless time had changed the man greatly, he wouldn’t be meeting his granddaughter.

 

They had to leave someday. If he had the chance, if he knew what sparked her interest-- well. Ifalna would be working on that, too. She might fare better starting over somewhere new and less tainted with bad memories when she was a little older. The idea was worth planting.

 

 _Not by traveling with us, though_ , he thought. It hurt, knowing that they had to put down so many roots and might have to rip them all out at a moment’s notice.

 

The last ladder he’d seen before the caves had been to a bookshelf, and he’d panted going up and down it. There was some comfort to him knowing he could scramble up one without much thought. It wasn’t work he caught on to quickly, like Vincent did, but he did his best and they made it through a decent section of the roof by sundown.

 

Supper was even quieter, all of them tired by the long day. Then, Ifalna surprised them all by pulling out one of his new books and settling with it on the sofa. “Shh. The dishes can wait.” she said. “Do you mind?” she asked Astrid.

 

“Mind what?” she asked. Even her nose crinkled a bit when she scowled.

 

“We like to pass the book around and read out loud.” replied Ifalna.

 

“...Do what you want. I’ll do the dishes this time.” she said, gruff.

 

The book made the time pass quickly, though it was harder to read by dim candles than by blazing firelight or the unnatural (extra natural?) light of the mako fountain. He’d found a classic mystery he remembered being fond of, from before ShinRa’s time, and the familiar flow of it soothed him.

Astrid feigned disinterest and settled with her own book in the chair, but she didn’t head to her room. And by the second chapter, she’d set it aside, all but forgotten as she listened with her head inclined and her jaw slack.

  
It was Vincent, of all people, who passed the book to her, and though she shot him a dirty look, she picked it up and started where he’d left off. Her reading was clumsy and hesitant. She fumbled over sounding out more than one unfamiliar word. But not a one of them made a move to stop her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Sephiroth interlude that I wanted to add before bed.

His first lesson, before they could go outside, his clothes were changed to something rough and ragged. His long hair was braided into two long braids that started high on his scalp, and the ends were carefully pinned in with what the Turk Veld called bobby-pins.

 

A messy black wig was sewn into the braids. “Just to be careful.” said Veld. “Wigs aren’t optimal for undercover, but it will prevent them from slipping or being pulled off at inopportune moments. I don’t have the rank to change your hair, and it is very distinctive.”

 

After that, an array of brushes came out, palettes with a variety of colors. “Make-up.” the man explained. “Women usually use it to make their features stand out, either subtly or distinctly. We’re going to use it subtly, to make you look like someone else.”

 

The feel of the brushes was unusual, the touch...uncomfortable, but it did not have the distinct pain of the scalpels and needles that he was used to enduring, the bruises and cuts of weapons and claws.

 

There was also a container of dirt, an oddly alive smell to it, and of fresh soot. These too were carefully applied to his face in places.

 

“You’ll be learning to do this on your own, of course, but it isn’t the point of the lesson.” said Veld, snapping the containers shut. “Go on, have a look at yourself.” he said, pulling a cap down over his head as a final touch.

 

He looked like one of the orphan boys from one of Gast’s secretly-snuck-in books. His eyes were still bright, with a faint glow and odd pupils, but the wig he could hardly see around and the suddenly sallow colors of his face muddied them, left them something a bit duller.

 

The naturally thin, sharp parts of his face were exaggerated to be gaunt and nearly bruised-looking, except for his nose and chin, which looked more rounded. Overall he looked like an entirely different person.

 

He paused for a moment, but he had been informed to ask as many questions as he could before and after their missions. “How common are these skills?” If someone could easily look like another...if an ally were made to look like an enemy in war, or an enemy like an ally...he’d heard of infiltration, but had not imagined how thorough it was.

 

“Even this is limited, and someone with training would see through it.” Veld replied. “The skills and training involved are not common. A woman would be more likely to be familiar with it, and see through it, than a man. Much of their value is assumed to be in the ability to appear beautiful to others, and they use it for those purposes.”

 

His mind reeled at the thought. He had not met many women, but the idea seemed cruel to whatever part of Ifalna had touched his identity. Judged by appearances alone...and coming up with an incredible tool of subterfuge in response. That took an act of quite creative thinking.

 

Another part of him was bitter at the idea that were he someone else, that might be the main test he needed to pass. But perhaps not all such changes came without pain. The pigments on his face could be washed off, but took time, effort, and skill to apply. He’d noted the unusually circled eyes and red lips of one of the women who’d visited the laboratories, and she had apparently been Important-- although, according to Hojo, less important than him. Ifalna had worn none as far as he could tell from memory, and she had been dismissed entirely.

 

As a tool, it might be-- he weighed the thought. Expensive? Difficult to obtain? Then he remembered that he could just ask.

 

“Is it hard to find?”

 

Veld hm’d. “A good warrior can fight well with a poor weapon, albeit not as well as with a good one. I can’t do much with cheap cosmetics. There are less expensive ones, but they’re much less durable and tend to be inconsistent.”

 

“Is it possible to look entirely like someone else?”

 

The man shook his head. “If you already look a lot like them, you can get close. But anyone who knows them well will be hard to fool. You can only do so much with the face. Build, height, voice, and the way someone speaks and moves are very difficult. So are personal memories formed with others in private.”

 

“So there is...safety, in familiarity? A guard against impersonation?”

 

A laugh pushed its way through Veld’s composure. “That’s not the main reason someone makes friends, but yes.”

 

That set Sephiroth’s mind running. If he became a high-profile figure, there would be many reasons to try and charade as him. And he didn’t for a moment think that if he failed to be perfect, Hojo would not replace him as readily as he’d replaced the lab assistants who flinched.

 

The idea was oddly displeasing to him. His training and enhancements would be difficult to fake. But the idea that he could be disappeared without anyone who cared enough to know the difference?

 

He could and would take measures to prevent it. When he could. Hojo had obviously seen fit to overlook this part of his training for a reason-- wanted to weaken him in some way to hold power over him. Hypocritically, was willing to let him be less “perfect” if it meant weakness to him and him only.

 

As Veld slipped into preparing his own disguise, Sephiroth tilted his head, one of Gast’s stories coming to mind. An old woman had transformed a young one, using magic, so she could escape the cruel expectations of her home for a night.

 

All of his tests were painful, brutal, and there were more tests hidden in them. This, too, would be so.

 

He carefully labeled the idea of the hardened man as his “fairy godmother” as a flight of _humor_.

 

Then again, Hojo would scoff at the idea of transforming by magic, when the power of the magic that curled from his materia was an utter reality. He was losing respect for his father’s opinions.

 

“You’re going to want to move like this.  There’s no need to get it exact on the first try.” said Veld, and then seemed to shrink on himself.

 

When Sephiroth just watched, he stood straight and did it again, slower. Knees and elbows slightly bent, hidden by the baggy clothes. Back slightly hunched into poor posture-- the idea of imitating Hojo in any way stung, but he noted it and then did his best to copy it. He was expected to imitate things as accurately as possible as soon as possible. There were many occasions where his life would have been forfeit had he not gotten it exact on the first try.

 

“That’ll do for now. And, finally…” He tucked a small stuffed cat toy into Sephiroth’s arms.

 

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow.

 

“It’s to make you look younger.” he explained. “And a recording device; this is the Mk. I Cait Sith. Whatever it sees, whatever it hears, Hojo will see and hear.”

 

He tried to force down the swell of disappointment before he caught on to the man’s exact wording. Hojo could only get so far as the stuffed toy did. Was that the sort of thing he’d meant by a battle of words? Conveying coded information in plain hearing?

 

“You’re going to be pretending to be a shy and sullen child who doesn’t like to talk. I’m going to pretend to be a parent who couldn’t decide whether to go get a drink, or spend time with his son, and so decided to do both at once. And you, personally, just need to watch and listen to as much as you can. We will discuss it afterward, but not until we have returned and broken character.”

 

“Broken character?” he asked.

 

“When you pick someone to pretend to be,” said Veld, pausing to think, “it’s often called ‘getting in character’. It’s usually used by actors-- people paid to pretend to be characters in stories to entertain others. When you act outside of what that character would do, as a person, it’s called ‘breaking character’. In undercover work, you want to avoid breaking character entirely until the debrief, because people are angry when they’re fooled. Unless you’ve specifically planned for it, once you’ve gotten into a fight with your target, you lose the main battle, the fight of words.”

 

That made little sense to someone who was training to be the most visible and threatening tool of warfare possible. For him, once the battle could not be won until it was started.

 

So the rules this test went by were very, very different. It would be an interesting challenge, and he found himself fearing it in a way that swords and materia no longer frightened him.

 

“Remember, all you’re supposed to do is watch and listen. I’ll intervene for you if someone tries to start a conversation.” Veld tweaked the position of Sephiroth’s hat, and jerked his head in a quick nod. “There’s no right or wrong answers to this test. This is just to tell me what I need to teach you.”

  
There were always right and wrong answers to a test. The statement had always been used as a trap for him before. Whether this skilled man Veld was oddly naive to this reality, or was outright lying to him, he would find out in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Likes? Dislikes? Things you want to see more of? Less of? Never see again? Comment and, within reason, your wish may well be my command. I'm flexible.
> 
> I've found a potential beta, but I'm likely to have a lot more of this story up before they're ready to help me work through new chapters. I'll have to go back and edit the older ones at some point, but I'm posting literally as I write to keep myself motivated and in the writing groove.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now a Vincent interlude.

By the end of the week, Vincent was splitting his days between work on the roof and monster hunting.

It was harder without the familiar-all-too-fast presences at his back, Ifalna who could soothe over all wounds and call down fire, Gast who had gone from clumsy and flinching with his own staff-- martial rather than casting-- to treating it like an extension of his own body.

They had little in value left to trade for goods, after starting lives with nothing but what made it to and through the caves. Every time he thought of Ifalna wistfully looking over the soft fabrics and ribbons that would make for colorful baby clothes, or Gast getting that pinched look on his face over his new notebooks as he negotiated unexpected costs against the ever-closer specter of when they’d run out of enough for rent-- months away and yet still too close--

Well.

So he hunted. The clumsy local ammunition wasn’t suited to his style of gun, but more than one home had an ammunition bench, and the materials were one thing kept plentiful in the area. Nobody wanted to get close to the wolves on the increasingly-common winters where they ventured from their caves, vicious and hungry. It had likely been the reason why they hadn’t constantly been stumbling over pack grounds.

If the old rifle he was more often resorting to had been pried from the hands of a long-skeletal figure in the caves, none of the locals said anything about recognizing it. The repairs to it had been extensive, making it less recognizable, but they were willing to be pragmatic about tools for survival, and nobody had challenged him over it as a long-lost heirloom.

With the rust scrubbed off, the rotten wood replaced and some of the finer metal pieces as well, it wasn’t a bad gun, per say. But as he lay in his days-in-planning sniper nest in the underbrush-- exhale, squeeze with steady pressure, relax against the kick-- and watched the shot take the Twin Brain through an eye in a shot that would rip through both brains, he thought of something his old rookie liked to say about what a good warrior could do with even a poor weapon.

It took speed and care to finish it off with the hunting knife before it could injure him in its death throes or drag itself off to try to recover.

Before any Zuu could arrive to pick over the body, he dragged it to one of the open spaces that the local beasts seemed oddly disinterested in to begin slicing into it. He was pleased by how none of the spinal fluid had leaked, a feat he would have been hard-pressed to reproduce with handguns in outright combat. Even enhanced ( _changed into a monster_ , his mind whispered, but he shoved the thought back at the thought of the lecture that would spark from Ifalna), he had a lot he could learn.

His demons chattered in displeasure at the nearly-clean kill, but something about his time spent with Ifalna let him quiet them. He refused to acknowledge the buzz of Chaos’ pleasure over the death.

A Twin Brain wasn’t worth eating, bringing spasms and madness on whoever was unfortunate enough to try it, but the magically-fortified organs and fluids could be refined for ethers and other expensive medicines, in the hands of a skilled chemist. The brutal time spent staking out a good spot for the kill, the hand of skill and chance in the fact he’d found it and that the shot had been critical, would give them an easier time surviving the months to come, and that...felt good in a way that surprised him.

He wanted to leave, ought to leave, before his mind fully adjusted to the tentative categorization of them as family. Nothing in him wanted a place in their bed for more than the ever-odd feeling of actually sleeping, feeling safe, every few nights, and he found himself periodically watching Aerith babble nonsense as she crawled through the house to investigate everything, just to give them some privacy.

But his and their goals coincided-- not just survival, but somehow, if it was possible, the eventual downfall of Hojo. Saving Sephiroth from the man, if by that time he wanted or needed saving. If he survived. Everything in him wanted to storm Midgar as soon as possible, but it wasn’t a strategically or tactically sound option.

An alien sly smugness emerged at the thought. Away from them, his demons could occasionally be louder and more distinct, and the Chaos in him challenged him, pulling up the memory from their time in the caves of him waking from his nightmares to Aerith squalling her lungs out and refusing to settle until she was in his arms, the demons freezing as if staring in shocked silence through his eyes. Everyone had stared shocked.

She would cry for food and to be changed, but she was an oddly cheerful infant, even in the stress of the caves. And Ifalna seemed to have preternatural instincts about her baby’s needs. He knew something was unusual about the woman, and thus about the child, and some part of him felt distinctly adopted.

It could be insulting, to consider that something so tiny, with no speech or control over its bowels, could have decided that it needed to look after him. She was far too young to understand what a monster was, that after his goals were seen through he knew he ought to return to the same torturesome, unnatural rest he’d once been accustomed to.

But looked after he was. To her, he who had been there for so much of her short life was family. One day her “uncle” would have to leave, and that would add to his sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melodramatic LARPing-to-cope man angst does not last well in the face of a squalling baby. Mister broody Dracula cosplay is one of my favorite characters and his demons don't stand a chance.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figured that it was high time to spotlight more of the women in the story. Mind, most of the female characters who WILL have central roles in this story aren't born yet. Have some focus on Astrid.

Damn, but being pregnant was exhausting.

 

There were months more of it to go, as too big as she’d grown too fast for what would undoubtedly be a tiny child. She wouldn’t trade her child-to-be for anything. He was a gift from Hel herself, for all the things she’d been through were anything but. Astrid wasn’t going to let herself whine over her trials.

 

All of Hel’s rare outright blessings came at a price, and she had a good idea of what that of her boarders would be. How fake could their names get? No part of her wanted to be mixed up in their problems, but their money was as good as any’s, and it wasn’t the worst or most messy way to pay her way.

 

She frequently rolled her eyes whenever Gus wandered past, scribbling in a notebook and muttering to himself about if only he had some fancy science thing or another to learn more about the local herbs. Like she didn’t notice the way the man and his wife treated her like a child who needed looking after.

 

It was...hard. It hurt, to see how much a difference having help made, even past their money, and she couldn’t exactly expect them to live in squalor or hunger. She’d dealt with it fine, and they weren’t soft city folk by any means, but so long as they paid and she allowed it, it was their home too.

 

The reassurances of how hard it had been during “”Felicia’s”” own pregnancy did little to take from the sting. She had to grudgingly admit that without their efforts to spare her pride, she’d likely have turned them down, but it hurt to be tiptoed around like she was made of glass. She could take a little argument! She’d have come around...eventually…

 

At least the Valens man seemed as disinterested in her as she was in them. So long as he kept his hands to himself, they wouldn’t have a problem. He was a hard worker who largely ignored her except to pass her books or dishes, or to mutter a quiet thanks when handed food. None of that emotional business. Kids had good instincts, and the baby Zephyr seemed to take to her uncle well enough.

 

Gus had had the gall to ask if he should leave his apprenticeship with the healer, once he heard she’d been the last apprentice to fall out with the woman. Wasn’t the first, and wasn’t her business what he did to pay his way. She’d told him as much.

 

Once the initial cleaning spree was done, it was easier to sweep and dust a little here and there. Bigger, fancier meals for more people meant more strength to do it with. If she’d gotten it done on her own in the first place, she could have kept up with it on her own, damn that bleeding heart Ada who’d grabbed her hands and said something about being so glad that there was life in the old Strife stead again, that it was clearly doing her good.

 

At least without her old mother there to teach her, she was able to pick up things she’d be using to look after her own child. Nobody would trust the “witch’s daughter” enough to foist their own babies off on her for any length of time, and she wasn’t born knowing how to change and bathe an infant. Odd and nigh-unnatural, the baby was, but Zephyr had the needs of any other.

 

The sound of footsteps outside the door made her look back down at her own book. That, too, had gotten easier, exhaustion and hunger and the oppressive dusty dim no longer pressing down on her attention. She’d never been the best reader, but was getting better. Something in her hungered for the days she’d spent patching wounds, poring over Mrs. Geier’s notes about what wraps and poultices and brews to use for what conditions, but she wasn’t going to stick around when half the town refused to be treated by the Witch, and when Mrs. Geier had matter-of-factly told her that it was the truth and there was no lie to argue against.

 

Nobody accused Felicia of being a witch. Suspicious and curious as they were at first, she charmed them in a way that even her ever-careful words shouldn’t have. She’d seen the woman at work with her ever-present Restore, literal magic, and wondered what their idea of a witch could possibly be when magic was so real and such a casual necessity of their lives.

 

She was so incredibly different from the ever-blunt Strifes, and Astrid wondered why the woman reminded her so much of her own mother sometimes that it hurt. The look in her eyes as, sometimes, she’d pause to listen as if something wasn’t there. The things she just _knew_...

 

The door burst open with breezy laughter and the woman herself was there.

 

“My turn to help with dinner.” she said, eyes sparkling. “They’re arguing again about that science and healing thing.”

 

“Whatever.” muttered Astrid, but a corner of her mouth lifted. Some part of her could get what Gus was arguing at, she guessed. A lot of healing herbs were refined into the medicines that ShinRa had taken over manufacturing. He wanted to say that healing arts and magic could be explained by science, that science was magic, just magic they understood.

 

How the instinctual tug she got the first time she’d ever held a materia-- passing a rolled-away Fire to Felicia-- had anything to do with lots and lots of reading and big words, she didn’t know. But science had things to say about lots of stuff that everyone knew, like breathing and drinking water, so it was surprising to learn that it didn’t have a lot to say about _that_.

 

But the old hawk Geier was so _literal_. That was a word she’d picked up from reading again, and she didn’t want to be as dense, but figured it explained what she herself wanted to be as good as anything. Matter-of-fact. What you see is what you get.

 

“How’s your little Cloud?” asked Felicia blithely, settling a hand on Astrid’s stomach. At least she believed what Astrid had said-- those blessed by Hel _knew_. They’d said there was some mistake when her own mother was born, but she knew who she was as soon as she could speak and wouldn’t let anyone hear less of it.

 

She’d clearly haggled and traded for herbs on the way. The woman’s faint accent reminded her of travelers from Icicle who’d passed through once, and with the way she always seemed to know the freshest, richest of even dried herbs as if the ghosts of the plants themselves spoke to her, Astrid tried not to wonder if the woman’s family had been touched by Freyja. Perhaps even more keenly than her own fading memory and all-too-short time with her mother left her own with the attention of Hel.

 

As if reading her mind, the woman started to speak. “By the way, I’ve heard around here and there that you follow the ways of the old gods.”

 

Astrid paused, scowling, and kept her mouth shut. She’d let the more visible parts fall lax over the past years, to avoid attention, but her insistence that her child was Hel’s blessing must have sparked gossip again. Damn the wagging tongues of the town.

 

“When I passed through, I found a natural holy place in the mountains. I plan to go at the appropriate times to pray and leave offerings.” she said gently. “If that is part of your practice, I would like to make the journey with you. My husband or brother could go with me, of course, but they would leave once I reached the caves-- it’s inappropriate, otherwise.”

 

“...Guess I could.” she mumbled, ducking her head and trying not to blush. It had been a while since she’d offered sacrifice anywhere but just past the edge of town, and even the best parts of her meagre feast-meals had seemed nearly insulting. “Town won’t like it, you doing that.”

 

“Sometimes you can hear it, too, can’t you? Just a little, like someone talking from another room.” Felicia murmured.

 

Astrid looked away. The omnipresent murmur seemed more...focused around the woman, and sharpened at the question. “Shut up. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Damn her complexion and the burning in her cheeks.

 

She flinched when Felicia clapped and acted brightly like she hadn’t heard. “It’s settled, then! It would be more appropriate at festival, but I suspect if they keep the old festivals here, they still would prefer it be done there.” Her smile gleamed from her warm complexion, contrasted against skin that drank in even brief glimpses of sunlight. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Even before her son was on the way-- the son she’d likely teach little, if any, of the ways her own mother had fought to keep alive-- she’d decided to stay so that at least for her life, someone would be doing the proper devotions. But the thought had crossed her mind, the last time she’d made the trek to the natural fountains where the life itself spilled out of the earth, to give herself as the appropriate hanged offering, certain that a life of strife (ha!) in Hel’s domain as a handmaiden would at least be better than the life of hardship in nigh-forsaken Nibelheim. No-longer-her Nibelheim, where they had embraced the corporate money brought by machines that drained the life itself from the earth for their conveniences.

 

Which was why she had not returned. Even were it appropriate in concept, Hel would not have looked kindly on one of her devotees fleeing life in her domain for death in it. The temptation could not remain.

 

Then she had been with child, and, well, that settled that.

 

Cloud gave a small kick, as if he knew he was being thought about. Her Cloud, the herald and bringer of the cleansing storm-- what the storm would be, she didn’t know. She would likely never tell him, or any other, of the way his other parent had saved her life, of how fiercely she would feel about the living memory she was left.

 

Valens always insisted on coming down to help as well. _At least_ , she thought dryly, _he’s been using the ladder._ For how chatty Felicia was, her brother seemed to make things fall into a peaceful silence. He alone would likely be helping with supper, since he never took a shift with breakfast-- instead often coming in with the early morning’s kills, or not appearing until after on the more likely occasions that he was empty-handed and feeling stubborn.

 

Some part of her found it funny to watch the stoic man who could so handily outshoot anyone fumble with chopping vegetables. It was the damned gloves he never took off, like the weird glasses. She had to admit for all that she wanted to learn to take herself as serious as he took himself, it looked...well, it looked silly. Astrid was old enough that his attitude and style of dress, his penchant for absurd acrobatics, that would have been impressive to her scant years before were kind of silly.

 

It could be Felicia’s influence talking, as she seemed charmed and amused by anyone trying to be too self-possessed, but while she would never give up on being a Strife, she was already less easily impressed by how someone looked or acted instead of what they actually did.

  
Did she look that silly when she thought she was being tough? Would her own son, if he inherited the Strife nature? Well, things would be as they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, with FF7's canon information, there's not much to back up Mama Strife being a weird outcast ~~true native Nibelheimer who is the only one who's kept to ~~the old ways. More likely she settled there when the reactor was built and didn't have the means to leave, or was just like any other local woman. If she was outcast at all for being a single mother, it was likely from having been married before and refusing to remarry.
> 
> We're given precious little information about her and plenty of room to make things up, though. I'm using a little bit of creative license when it comes to Norse worship, but for a lot of it, even their heavily religious practicers, healers, diviners, and wizards were viewed with a severe amount of suspicion by the average person. Nobody wanted the gods pissed off, but nobody wanted a witch in their town for long, either. They were considered sexual deviants due to what were likely transgender members and an open support of lesbianism or choosing to stay single, while living in a culture that was all about "make more babies!!", and gradually social currents went to "uhh they're clearly not worshipping the REAL proper old ways that we've survived off of for hundreds of years, they're all heretics and witches who do evil magic rituals. That's it, that's the ticket." 
> 
> The one way someone who had been declared male at birth, for example, could not get outright murdered for professing to be a woman was by becoming a traveling priestess or wise woman.
> 
> So I'm kind of pulling most of this out of my ass based on my own speculations and what I liked best of popular headcanons. I like the idea that Mama Strife was part-Cetra but that it was so incredibly diluted that she got little out of it. Or that the Lifestream, and by proxy her, could have had some sort of premonition that Cloud was gonna be involved in major things going down. I like the idea that he inherited his bratty self-serious attitude from his mother and that she only dropped it to fuss over him. I like the idea that her push for him to find an "older girl to take care of him" was actually some kind of premonition about Aerith, team healer who looked after everyone both with her materia and her very nature as a person.
> 
> I also am getting precious little action out of these bonding sessions that I'm not willing to skip as plot buildup, so I figure this is a good setup for some adventuring. I already skipped a ton of action. Adventure 2: Adventure Harder, With An Infant Strapped To Your Back! Maybe that'll help with some of this goddamn Bechdel failure I'm falling to. I hate how the original writers gave us so much more to work with re: the male characters and tended to make their few female characters revolve around them.


	8. For New and Returning Readers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I figured it'd be a week before I was able to get another chapter up.
> 
> Life has, since, kicked my ass. I'm poking at bits and pieces when I have both time and energy, and I'm deeply sorry for the delay. No ETA on the hiatus time, although I'm hoping to be back in a regular schedule of writing by November 2015 at latest-- before this fic hit me, I'd been regular with fiddling with original projects, and it's seriously killing me to not be able to work on anything. I have my outlines together for the next many, many words to come, and as soon as I'm not spending my time passed out if I'm not on my feet, they'll be here.
> 
> I didn't actually expect anyone to take interest in this little idea, which felt very silly and indulgent. For every passing reader to skim it, for every kudos, for every comment and bookmark and subscribe, I am grateful. Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~


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